Like many of its technological predecessors, hypertext was greeted with
a mixture of excitement and panic, both of which fueled heated debates,
as well as somewhat premature prophecies, about the death of the
book. At the heart of this debate was a simple question:
What is the Book?
Since the age of
Gutenberg’s press, the terms “print” and “book” appeared inextricably
intertwined. For writers and critics such as William Gass, “In
the Heart of the Heart of the Country”, and Sven Bikerts, The
Gutenberg Elegies, the
relationship between form and content had become embodied, as it were,
in the physical act of reading. To separate the two, therefore,
was to forsake the sensory experience associated with the act of
reading print and, therefore, to reduce the pleasure of reading.
In his award winning essay, “In Defense of the
Book”, William Gass
argues that the materiality of a book provides the “stimulus for
reminiscence” without which understanding and recall of the text itself
is lost:
We shall not
understand what a book is, and why a book has the
value many
persons
have, and is even less replaceable than a person,
if we forget how
important to it is its body, the building that has been
built to hold
its lines of language safely together through many
adventures and a
long time.
Responding to
Gass’ apologia, Melvin Sterne, a
supporter of hypertext and staunch
defender of the book, agrees that the book is endangered but reminds
his readers that the book existed in many forms, long before print, and
that literature transcends history and cultures regardless of its
container: “There are no existing copies of any of the original
gospel accounts, yet the Bible survives. More accurately, then, we must
conclude that a book is the information contained in the body, not the
body itself.”
That the book is
much more than an object is certain, but the debate does not end
here. If a book is defined by its content, what happens when the
nature of the content is radically changed?
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